


And All Its Budded Charms

by caesia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-01-27 20:51:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1722161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesia/pseuds/caesia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's good that Sansa has found a true friend, especially after all she lost during the war. Still, Jon wishes it could have been someone less dangerous than Margaery Tyrell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jon I

From the moment he arrived in King’s Landing, Jon cursed his new-found family connection to the Targaryen queen. He appreciated her aid during the War for the Dawn, of course, even though her dragons made him uneasy, but since the war he’d been trapped in a succession of favors and invitations that he couldn’t quite manage to decline. A month, she promised, perhaps two, and he could return north with allies and fresh supplies for rebuilding.

The supply wagons left six months ago, but Jon is still completing his obligations in the capital. He didn’t think it could get worse than watching nobles dripping with finery beg and scrape before their new queen while smallfolk still starved in the lands of the North. Then Daenerys left to treat in person with the prince of Dorne, and Jon found himself the focus of nobles scheming for power. 

Satin has just poured out a basin of warm water when one such scheme knocks at his chambers. Livery gleaming with intricate gold embroidery on cloth of forest green peeks through the open door to his solar. Tyrell colors. 

His steward brings him the message. “Lord Snow, Ser Garlan Tyrell begs that you excuse him from your appointment in the training yards this morn, as he is occupied on sudden business. In place of your prior engagement, the Lady Margaery extends to you an invitation to break your fast with her in the south gardens.” Jon blinks for a moment at the sparring gear laid out on the bed before Satin adds, “I’ve told him he must wait for you to dress.”

“You already accepted?” Satin nods, and Jon fixes him with a baleful stare. “You were late this morning. If I were dressed for the yard already, I would be training with my men instead of taking tea.”

His steward only shrugs. “Lady Sansa says you’re too obvious about using the training yard to avoid meeting people.”

Jon grunts, splashing water on his face and neck. “Do you take instructions from Lady Sansa, or from me?”

“It depends whether you’re being foolish or not.” Satin muffles his attempt to reply with the towel as he dries his face. 

He shouldn’t be surprised that Sansa arranged this with his steward, nor that the man listened. For every noble Jon offends with a blunt remark or a stern glare, his beautiful cousin endears herself to two. He’s watched her at banquets, radiant and charming, complimenting knights and sharing secrets with ladies as if they are the best of friends, then returning to her seat with new trade contacts for the Manderleys or Glovers. Her triumph, though, was the mile-long caravan of grain sent from Highgarden and accompanied by craftsmen who would rebuild the glass gardens at Winterfell. A gesture of thanks, Garlan explained to him, after her impassioned plea to Daenerys to spare her friend Margaery, though the girl was widow to three Baratheon kings. 

Jon himself avoids the former queen. He remembers her that day, prostrate before the queen in a long silk cloak of the darkest green, returned to the colors she wore before her marriages, but he also remembers the glances she threw at him during the queen’s inaugural ball. Sansa dines with her twice a week or more, disregarding the fact that the little queen had played a part in framing her for murdering Joffrey. Still, the subtleties of the political games played here in King’s Landing baffle him, so for the most part he is content to trail along after Sansa’s lead, trusting that his cousin will do what is best for the North. 

At the sight of Margaery, though, he wishes he could have ignored Sansa’s voice in his head entreating him to show her friend every courtesy. She’s wearing a golden gown, gossamer-pale, that drapes diagonally across her body to accentuate her narrow waist. The slender curve of her neck, too, is displayed to its best advantage, with the top of her heavy curls pinned behind her ears. 

The messenger announces him, and even as she lowers her eyes in respect for his rank, the corners of her mouth curl up into a charming half-smile. It’s a look that never fails to set him on edge. 

“Please, sit down, my lord,” she urges, one fair hand waving lazily toward the gilded plate across from her. “The bounty of Highgarden is best enjoyed under the morning sun, or so my grandmother always claims.”

He performs a slight bow with a jerk of his head and takes the indicated seat. “I thank you for the invitation. Lady Sansa has long spoken of your generosity and friendship.”

Margaery’s eyes glitter at the mention of Sansa’s name. After swallowing a grape, she gushes, “Sweet Sansa. Truly, I am the one who should be praising her generosity. I will forever be in her debt for interceding with the queen on my behalf. It has been such a joy to renew our friendship now that the war is over.”

“If only the devastation from the war were over. The aid sent from Highgarden to Winterfell will not be forgotten.” 

“Indeed.” Then, with a flick of her wrist, she clears the heavy subject from the air, summoning a servant to pour refreshments. Jon eyes the plates of delicacies with a frown, searching for anything resembling the simple fare with which he normally breaks his fast. Two goblets are produced with a flourish and filled with a pale amber wine, while Jon settles for spooning baked apples over biscuits coated in honey. 

“A toast,” Margaery proposes, “To everlasting ties between Highgarden and Winterfell.”

“To a long and prosperous friendship,” he agrees, taking a sip. Margaery’s eyes shine brighter than the crystal in her glass as he sputters a little. Whatever fills his goblet, it isn’t wine— there’s a heavy sweetness that weighs down his tongue and dances along the back of his throat. He swallows again at the aftertaste, tart and dry.

Her smile is positively cat-like now. “Do you like it?” He struggles to reply, pinned in his seat by her gaze. “I know you’ve never travelled to the Reach, so I thought you might enjoy one of our specialties. It never leaves Highgarden except to accompany my family.”

“It’s very good,” he manages to say, taking another sip to wet his throat. “What is it, exactly?”

“Peach nectar.” She takes a sip of her own, delicately licking away a drop from the gold filigree roses that form the rim. His hands are clammy, his neck hot as she shifts forward in her seat, silk whispering.

That’s the other reason he avoids her. Margaery Tyrell has the uncanny ability to  _affect_ him with only a tilt of her head or the sway of her hips when she walks. For a woman who claims to be a maiden still after three marriages, she’s alarmingly good at making him think of his bedchamber. To mask his reaction, he turns his attention to his food, washing down a heaping bite of apples with a gulp of nectar. A slow dizziness passes over him, and he realizes too late that the drink is much stronger than wine. 

“Has it been very difficult for you to get used to King’s Landing?” Margaery asks, nibbling on a crescent of melon. “All the splendor of the capitol must be quite a change from the Wall.”

He can’t tell if she’s mocking the court or not, so he answers truthfully. “It is a change I hope will last only a short time. The queen has promised that I may return home soon, to help the North rebuild.”

“You are very devoted to your home and your family. It’s something we share. What a blessing it must be for you to be reunited with your sister.”

An image of Arya, grinning as she twirls the sword he’d given her, flashes across his mind. Then her meaning hits him. “Sansa is my cousin, my lady. We were never close as children, but it has been good to see her thriving after all she has endured in the war.”

Something passes across her eyes, but it is gone in a moment and she is full of praise again. “She has shown a keen mind for politics. Will she stay in the south, do you think, or return north with you?”

“Her plans are not yet set. I wish only for her to be where she is happiest.” He doesn’t know the answer himself, but even if he did, he wouldn’t tell  Margaery. Sansa’s secrets belong to her alone.

Their conversation moves on, Jon’s head growing fuzzier as the servant continues to refill his glass. He wishes he’d been able to wear his armor, or at least his sparring clothes, for the brunette’s hot glances make him feel exposed. She laughs frequently, somehow finding humor in the words he forces past his sluggish tongue, and each time the musical sound goes straight to his groin. 

The chime of scattering gravel along the path saves him. With an ungainly lurch, he rises halfway out of his chair, praying that the tightness in his breeches isn’t obvious. Sansa glides along the path as if she herself were the queen, a Tyrell messenger trailing in her wake.

Margaery stands, and Sansa goes immediately to her side, pressing kisses to her cheeks in greeting. “Where are your manners?” Margaery asks, laughing. “Have you forgotten about Lord Snow?”

“Jon doesn’t mind.” His cousin gives him a warm look before turning back to her friend. They fuss over each other, Sansa tucking a tendril of Margaery’s hair back in place while Margaery adjusts the sheer dove-grey capelet Sansa wears over her gown. She’s wearing pink today, the color echoing the soft flush of her cheeks, and her hair hangs in long waves down her back in the northern style. It’s good to see her sharing a happy moment, even if something about their smiles makes him nervous. 

At last she slides around the table and extends her hand for him to kiss, playfully murmuring his formal title. He lowers his mouth to the signet ring that bears a snarling direwolf. Daenerys gave it to her as a sign that she’d put aside her enmity for the Starks, and Sansa never takes it off. He knows the gesture to be a political one— _see the way the queen’s own heir respects me—_ and it reminds him to keep his guard up in front of Margaery. Once he’s settled back in his chair, Sansa stays by his side, resting her hand lightly on his shoulder. “I’m so glad the two of you could get better acquainted.”

Margaery’s smile approaches a grin, and Jon’s stomach flips. “We were just discussing horses. Lord Snow expressed great interest in our breeding program at Highgarden.” 

 _Did I?_  He can’t remember much of their conversation, only the sensation that he was being lured to his doom. “Queen Daenerys sent a Dothraki envoy there to examine your herds, did she not?”

“She did. Willas wrote me the most amusing letter describing his visit.” Sansa’s hand tightens minutely over his shoulder at the mention of Margaery’s brother. 

“If he served any of this nectar, I’m sure the visit was most pleasant,” Jon says, reaching for his goblet. Sansa lets out a soft noise of approval as he raises it to his lips. 

“Isn’t it simply divine, Jon? Margaery laughs at me, but I drink mine over ice.”

“That’s because it’s too strong for you. Lord Snow seems to enjoy it neat.” His empty glass agrees with her, but he waves off the servant who scurries to bring him more. 

“You didn’t warn me! I buzzed like a honeybee all afternoon the first time I tried it,” Sansa explains, exchanging another secretive smile with Margaery. “That’s what I get for following my sweet tooth, I suppose.” Her fingers climb his shoulder to his neck where they tangle with his curls. Their cool touch sends a shiver down his spine, and the pressure between his legs increases. Even though Sansa stands just behind his shoulder and Margaery looks on, he wishes he could palm himself for some relief.

Instead he tries to distract himself with conversation. “Have peaches surpassed lemons as your favorite fruit, Sansa?”

“Of course not,” she says with a sniff. “I could eat lemoncakes every day.”

“You’re fortunate, then, that the queen shares your tastes.” He’d thought Sansa’s affection for lemons unable to be matched until he’d dined with Daenerys.

“That’s because Sansa has exquisite taste.” Margaery stretches out the compliment with a low drawl, and Jon becomes certain that there’s some subtext between the two women that he’s missing. He sneaks a glance at his lap, but his hostess doesn’t notice; she’s entranced by Sansa’s attention to his hair, eyes darkening. Whether her expression reveals desire or ambition he isn’t sure, but Jon decides it’s past time for him to escape. 

“I’m afraid I have meetings to attend this morning, so I must leave you to each other’s company,” he announces, attempting not to groan as he stands. “My thanks for your hospitality, Lady Margaery.”

“It was an honor,” she replies with a slight pout. “I do hope you might join us again some morning.”

His only reply is another jerky bow and a final kiss to Sansa’s hand.


	2. Sansa I

Sansa sinks gracefully into Jon’s vacant seat, beaming at Margaery as her friend watches him retreat. “Finally, some progress! What did you think?”

The former queen looks none too pleased. “He was so solemn. If I’m to charm him, he mustn’t view every luncheon and tea party as a tactical maneuver. Perhaps he requires a different setting.”

“I think he has a keener sense of politics than you think,” she replies, trying to hide her smile, “though I can’t imagine what he’d say if he heard you plotting your invitations like military engagements.”

Her tease produces a smirk, and she can tell when Margaery’s mood changes from frustrated to playful by the way she pulls her shoulders back and tilts her head. Waving at her servant to follow them, the brunette glances at the path that leads deeper into the gardens. “Come, let’s strategize. You shall be the leader of my vanguard.”

“As you command, my lady,” Sansa giggles. Her laughter dies when she links her arm through Margaery’s, though. For all its rustling silk, the golden gown stretches paper-thin over Margaery’s side, only the slightest barrier concealing pale flesh. Sansa knows what it would feel like to press her hand there, her thumb braced against a sensitive hip bone while her fingers sink into softness. For now, she makes do by synchronizing their steps, deliberately swaying as she walks. Margaery notices—how could she not, when the merest brush of their legs burns like an open flame—but she doesn’t respond except to lead them to a wicker swing that overlooks the Rush. It’s their favorite spot to spend their mornings, protected as it is by thick shrubs and an old wrought-iron gate that shrieks at the faintest touch. She peers out at the boats cruising down to the harbor, idly twisting her ring, until Margaery sends the servant away and embraces her from behind. 

Anticipating a kiss along her neck, Sansa stills, but the soft breath across her cheek carries only a whisper. “What shall I do next? Help me decide.”

“First, your romantic instincts need work. No murmuring into his ear about seducing other people,” she huffs.

“I save that just for you,”Margaery replies, ignoring her feigned affront. “I’d hoped the nectar would loosen him up, but it only made him flustered.”

“I thought you liked making people flustered,” Sansa protests while Margaery turns to pour them more refreshments. “That’s why you’re always smiling behind your wine glass when men come to call on you during your grandmother’s visits.”

The memory brings that precise smile to Margaery’s lips, and Sansa feels her cheeks heat even as she fights to control her expression. “No, sweetling, I smile because they think Daenerys’ rise means I’ll make a match with a hedge knight. They’re fools if they think my family doesn’t know how to weather a regime change.”

The pleasant warmth beneath her skin dissipates at once. Her emotions towards the Tyrell girl are as unpredictable as a butterfly flitting among new flowers in a spring meadow, and twice as delicate. Sometimes they’ll catch eyes across the Red Keep, and the feeling of having a _friend_ overwhelms her, knowing that someone is saving arch comments and naughty bits of gossip to share with her alone. Other times in her presence Sansa’s skin itches and her nipples ache and the only remedy is Margaery’s sweet mouth and clever fingers and the slow way they tangle their limbs together after release. 

Then she’ll mention her political goals, or family, beloved and intact, and everything falls apart. It’s not her desire to marry Jon that bothers Sansa— after all, she’d been the first to mention the potential match, pretending to focus on weaving a daisy chain while monitoring Margaery’s reaction. It’s her opinion, affirmed again and again by her previous marriages, that she deserves not a good match but a great one, a prince with a claim to the throne. Sansa envies her ambition, unaltered as it is by the death of her family or the loss of her home. She’d dreamed about much the same things once, before she’d been stripped of everything but her claim. 

Swallowing her jealousy before it can turn to anger, Sansa accepts a cup of nectar. “The queen should return within a fortnight. Perhaps she can be persuaded to host another ball.”

“The Essosi kind? With masks and unusual fashions?” Margaery asks. “But he hates dancing.”

“You could lead him away somewhere, to escape the musicians.” The image is appealing somehow; Jon would protest, she knows, but not in a way that might bring attention to their flight. His forehead would crease with concern, though, and his full lips would pout and twist in displeasure. It would take more than words to soothe him, but a touch— slow and firm between his brows, across his jaw, against his lips— might. 

Sansa buries her hand in her skirts, squeezing tight to force away the sensation of Jon’s beard prickling her knuckles. 

“It would be too public,” Margaery was complaining, “And the queen would see. She keeps a dreadful close eye on Lord Snow.”

Margaery’s exasperated sigh is one of her best dramatic gestures. Sansa can’t help but provoke her friend on occasion, pretending ignorance even though she learned long ago to predict the action of pieces in the game of thrones. Politely, she frowns. “Does Queen Daenerys have a reason to oppose the match?”

There it is— Margaery tosses her whole head back as she rolls her eyes, soft lips pursed around a sharp exhale. “He is her only kin. The woman he takes to wife is of the utmost importance to her, and I am a disgraced widow.”

“She might be the largest obstacle to your plan, then.” Sansa replies. 

 _Might_ be, because sometimes Sansa wakes from dreams of her dark-haired cousin with a hollow ache between her legs. Jon is not like other men— neither a player nor a pawn, exactly, and neither a brother nor a suitor. She can’t afford to let thoughts of him distract her, though, so she moves to set down her goblet. Margaery grabs Sansa’s wrist first, pulling her down to sit beside her on the swing. Once they’re settled, nestled against one another, she murmurs, “I thought you might speak to her on my behalf. Soften her toward me.”

Sansa stands abruptly, letting the golden vessel clatter to the stones at her feet. “The queen does not seek out my counsel on such matters. You should know better than to ask this of me.” It isn’t hard to tighten her jaw and harden her glare. Nor is Margaery’s rapid swallow an act. She _should_ know better, after they stood side by side while Prince Aegon burned for planning the royal succession without the queen’s approval. _She would stand there again, while I burned, if it came to that_.

Whether the thought is true or not, it gives Sansa the strength she needs to resist Margaery’s fluttering apologies, even when her voice cracks from anxiety. “Sansa, you must know I’ve never…I would never put you in danger, sweetling. I mean to do this for _us_ , remember? Else you must return to Winterfell, and I to Highgarden.” 

“I must return no matter whom you marry. And you will have Jon, and I’ll be alone…” she struggles through the beginning of tears, and knows she’s close to victory. “I’m finally happy here, and I don’t want it to change. I can’t stand it if anything should change.”

Hands brushed her shoulders, tentatively sweeping underneath her hair to tuck it to one side of her neck. “Hush, Sansa. Hush, my lovely darling. Come here.” The kiss she’d waited for earlier lands on her neck, followed by another closer to her ear. “You _will_ be happy. I promise you that, Sansa, no matter what changes.”

Margaery gently turns her, drawing her back into the swing to gather her into her arms. Rocking them back and forth, she hums a Southron hymn against her temple, rubbing soothing circles down her spine. This is the girl Margaery remembers— soft, frail, desperate to be loved— and perhaps there’s still part of that girl hidden away beneath her winter heart, because Sansa’s tears fall fast and thick. Soft lips move from her temple to her jaw, whispering sweet words of comfort, and she notes that the strain has left Margaery’s voice entirely. 

 _People see what they want to see_. Sansa should be pleased that her act has so thoroughly convinced her lover to let down her guard. It will be easier to accomplish what must be done if Margaery doesn’t suspect her plans. _Still_ , a voice whispers, clashing with the gentle lullaby, _shouldn’t she be able to tell my true tears from my false ones?_ A sour bubble rises in her throat at the thought.

Sansa knows that she is playing a dangerous game, flirting with the temptation to believe her own lies. But Margaery’s hands are warm and gentle, and her voice is kind, and it’s easy to curl tighter in her embrace. Tenderly, Margaery loosens the laces at her neck and draws the cape off her shoulders, pressing kisses to skin dappled with pale freckles. Turning, Sansa embarks on her own exploration of flushed skin, beginning at the notch between Margaery’s collarbones and working her way up her slim neck to her mouth. 

The morning stretches on, lazy lips filling each moment with pleasure. As the shade retreats from their swing, moisture prickles at the back of their knees, even though they’ve drawn their skirts up to the tops of their thighs to take advantage of the breeze rising from Blackwater Rush. Sansa chases a drop of sweat from Margaery’s hairline, smiling at the sharp taste of salt against the sweetness of her perfumed curls. Margaery retaliates with a gentle nip at her neck that makes her groan.

The gate creaks.

By the time Garlan makes his way up the path to their hideaway, they appear perfectly composed, or so Sansa hopes. She’s covered the places Margaery kissed too enthusiastically with her cape, pulling her hair forwards to hold the gauzy fabric in place. If they sit rather closer than Margaery’s brother expects, he gives no indication, but the man following him notes their posture with the first sweep of his eyes.

His appearance sets Sansa on edge, though she is careful not to betray her nerves by shifting away. She grants Garlan her most charming smile, extending a hand for him to kiss while keeping her other arm firmly entwined with her friend’s. “Lord Garlan, Varys. How good of you to come visit us.”

“Whatever can you mean, bringing the Master of Whispers to see us, brother?” Margaery asks, tilting her head playfully. “I do hope you have secrets to share.”

“I’m afraid I must disappoint today, Lady Margaery,” Varys replies, bobbing forward in a miniature bow. “However, the Mistress of Letters requests that Lady Stark might accompany me to the queen’s library.”

Delicately uncrossing her legs, Sansa pulls her arm from Margaery’s grasp. “Missendei is to draft a resolution establishing Rickon’s future as Warden of the North. I’m sure she seeks clarification regarding the duties of the position,” she explains casually. “Thank you, Varys.”

He makes another bow. “It is my pleasure to serve those who serve the queen,” he intones. “If you’ll excuse us, Lord Garlan, Lady Margaery.”

Leaving the Tyrells behind, Sansa walks at Varys’ elbow, resolved not to speak until he asks a question of her. He waits until they are out of the trees before he begins. “Your friendship with Lady Margaery grows closer by the day. Are you quite certain this is wise?”

“My instructions were to earn her confidence,” she says cooly. “My methods are no one else’s concern.”

“Of course, of course. But it would be…hmm, _problematic_ if Lord Snow were to learn the nature of those methods.”

With an intensity that startles her, Sansa wishes he would speak plainly. _Say I allowed her to seduce me, and make your real objection known._ He’s always spoken in riddles, though, so she focuses instead on the message underneath this words. That he means to suggest a threat is clear enough,  but she doubts whether the Spider’s warning is warranted. Jon’s face had betrayed confusion, yes, but hunger too. She struggles to moderate her tone, as even the slightest advantage over Varys must be protected at all costs. “There is no other way, or else she would see me as a rival. But I will keep your counsel in mind and ensure that our friendship remains discreet.”

“You know best, I’m sure.” When they reach the door to the library tower, he slips away down a back passage without another word. The sick feeling his words have stirred won’t leave her nearly as quickly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! To speculate, comment, or nag me for updates, follow me on [tumblr](http://www.caesiamusa.tumblr.com)! Feedback is always welcome and appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> Plenty of scheming and sexiness to ensue! Reviews and new friends on [tumblr](http://www.caesiamusa.tumblr.com) are always welcome.


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